The (not so slow) decline

I fry up some asparagus for breakfast with two eggs, sunny side up cracked in among the spears. On the Instagram post it effortlessly slides off the pan and onto the plate as a perfect unit. I consider my effort post transfer. I mean, most of it is on the plate, which should be chalked up as a win right? But really, its a nutrient dense crime-scene and I not-so-silently curse the progenitor of this video for making it look like this was in my realm of ability.

I have a natural disposition towards fatalism, so this definitely does not portent well for the rest of my day.

I also feel like I’ve been worked over with a baseball bat. And then hobbled out into the street only to be hit by a bus. That was on fire. Maybe I should have led with that. Its a status-condition that’s making me quite hostile.

I achieved my fist Jujitsu class last night in… a really, long time. (I’m embarrassed to say how long). My last foray into grappling didn’t go particularly well for me, with a 290lbs (130kg) white belt/mountain troll falling on me and breaking three of my ribs. Ignominious doesn’t even begin to cover it. He stacked me and I tried to do to something clever (as befitting the periwinkle hue of my belt)… in any event he came crashing down right into my floating ribs et al.

Last night went about the same for me. Ha ha. (If anything I like to be consistent) Half way through the class, practicing escapes from side control I heard/felt something go grrrrrt-shnick in the ribs coming off my sternum. And now… if I breathe too aggressively I am doubled over in pain. Sneezing or coughing is also a one way ticket into the spectrum of agony.

I don’t think they’re broken. Or even cracked. I think I’ve pulled something intercostal. But because I’m so much less hard these days… it feels monumental in scale and insurmountability. Which apparently is not a real word. I decide to leave it though, because I’m typing at pace… and all I really want to do is go get drugged up and supine. (It also has a problem with intercostal which it wants to change to intercourse… which would obviously be nice, but might kill me)

I really enjoyed it though. The jujitsu.

And, for the most part did… okay-ish. My friend with whom I confided some apprehension about starting grappling again, seemed to think it was like ‘riding a bicycle’, to which I enunciated some deep skepticism. BUT… turns out, the ‘Fingerspitzengefühl’ is still there, I was just let down by my fitness and flexibility… Which are beyond horrific. Also my body is soft now. I used to be carved out of wood (to paraphrase Tyler Durden), but every crash into the mat last night felt like a Tunguska style event. (for me I mean, the mat was fine).

Look at me in my whites. (although it turned out to be a no-Gi session). I agonized over which belt to wear. Rocking up as a newbie (to a new gym) with a purple belt when you haven’t trained in forever felt cheeky and disingenuous. And I didn’t have a white belt. So I opted for blue. (which is probably earned after two years at a solid Brazilian school, maybe slightly less if you have real aptitude)

Purple belts are usually awarded after… four or maybe five years. I think. Mine took longer though, because I preferred standup… and I was also Fencing at the time, and stick fighting. (probably still my favorite) and all manner of other things that involved the potential for blunt force trauma.

Me in black, ringing my friend Ricky’s bell. Har har. Good times. Trust me when I say those fencing helmets do nothing to soften the blows. Still, when you’re in your early thirties you are (still) pretty much invincible. (and can shake off at least some of the brain-damage)

Forty is when the great culling of recovery suddenly starts. And also, somewhat cruelly, when your metabolism falls off a cliff. And I’m really feeling that today. Really, really.

All I want to do is lie on my recliner, hopped up on Tramadol, play playstation and eat Nutella out of the jar.

I can’t really do any of those things, and everything I’m doing now is accompanied by groans more appropriate coming out of a bordello, than, for example when picking up my daughters dinosaur drawing up off the floor (everyone knows three years can’t pick up their own stuff, despite standing next to it).

How do you get old, slowly… and then all of a sudden, really fast?

Yeah…

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